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"That is a rather bold conclusion," Zayne responded, reaching above his head to snatch a produce bag from the supplied roll. Methodically, he used his fingernails to split the plastic, and began inspecting the bell peppers with an eye only possessed by a doctor. "What evidence have you gathered to make such an accusation?"

"You haven't kissed me."

He faltered, a minute twitch of his index finger as he reached for the piece of fruit he had determined as adequate. Slowly, he deposited the bell pepper into the bag, then grabbed another one. You stepped closer, invading his space. His eyes glanced at you, a simple observation, then he was rounding the cart to place the bag next to the frozen lasagna. 

"Zayne," you prompted, an edge to your voice indicating frustration, "I can't do this anymore."

"The produce section of the grocery store is not where we should be having this conversation," he continued to grab more items, this time, filling a bag with celery. 

His professional demeanor had always attracted you to him: his polite respect for strangers and companions, his near damn perfect posture, his relentless ambition to get things right. It made when he lost control that much more enticing. The filthy words, his blazing eyes, the grunts as he buried himself to the hilt. It was one or the other, no in-between. 

You wanted the domestic side. Yes, shopping together was domestic indeed, but you could do such chores with your friends and family. You wanted the romance, the kisses in the kitchen while cooking, the hugs from behind as he explained the hardships of the day. 

Pining after this man for so many years had its downsides. You were desperate, on the brink of pushing limits, placing him in an uncomfortable situation. 

Around Zayne, you had been calculated. His words were sometimes few, but resonant. If you were about to enter a conversation with the potential to expand, you would become his focal point. And that stare of his, pure as ice, always melted your resolve. 

On a whim, out of fear of the serious, you had navigated a conversation months ago, ultimately settling upon a new dynamic. Friends, you two had forever been, so what was the danger of some benefits? Other men barely caught your interest, and if they did, it was fleeting. Zayne, on the other hand, had been the first person you imagined kissing when those thoughts were born from puberty. 

"Well, you don't seem to want to have this conversation anywhere else," you replied, venom curling your pronunciation. That wasn't true, you knew Zayne would be open to a conversation late in the evening, maybe at the coffee shop you two frequented before work. He would even consider it as you two caught your breath underneath his fancy blankets, skin marked in bites and bruises. 

You were projecting. 

Zayne had moved onto cucumbers. The sleek shine of the vegetable's skin pronounced beneath his pristine hands. He twisted his wrist, scouting for any imperfection. And your brain, lost in some delirium, reminisced. 

His hand had cradled his own erection quite similarly the night prior, near the base, poised so you could sink down upon him easily. That smirk he wore as your rode him sprinkled burning sparks across your skin, and your nails had dug into his chest, a form of restraint to prevent your mouth from finding his. 

You had always taken the initiative, Zayne had always guarded his inhibitions. You wanted his lips fused to yours, his tongue spearing deep and meeting your tenacity.

"Insertion of this vegetable has become more common."

You choked on nothing but your own saliva, "you aren't suggesting we - nevermind."

"No, I was just stating what I had learned at a meeting this week."

You weren’t entirely sure how to carry on the conversation after that. So, you didn’t. Zayne had always been comfortable with silence between you two, and of course, you had too. 

The rest of the grocery trip went by with mindless glances at random products, and occasionally looking at your phone. Zayne kept to his routine, checking expiration dates, comparing prices, and purchasing products only his personal research had approved of. 

It wasn’t long before the cart was tapping the bumper of his car, filled with the reusable bags he had taken from their designated spot in his pantry. Zayne unloaded the groceries into the trunk as you leaned against the passenger side door. Usually, you would aid in emptying the cart, but a petty stubbornness had compelled you to just watch. 

Zayne expressed his own dissatisfaction, huffing when he latched the trunk hatch and walked the cart to its corral. 

You observed, noting his stride, the confidence in his step. You went to open your door, only to find it locked. 

You frowned. 

Zayne strode past his vehicle to meet you at your side. Rotating so you faced him, your back to his car, your mouth opened. 

“What are you -” 

“For once, I won’t ask for permission.” 

His kiss was like ice shattering, a foundation crumbling beneath your feet. 

Zayne was rough.

Zayne was taking control, he was dominating.

And hell, if you didn't devour him in return. 

The handle of the car door dug into your waist, but that was the least of your worries, especially with the doctor bending your back over the curve of the car. Your hair brushed the roof of the chassis, hands grappling onto his upper arms. 

"I've wanted to kiss you," his voice was feather-light, that monotone, yet beautiful timber he often consulted you with, "for quite some time."

"Then why didn't you?"

He considered your question, lips resting over yours. His sharp nose nuzzled your cheek as he playfully nudged you. 

"I knew once I did, I would completely fall."

Your gasp felt unnervingly loud in the parking lot. A shopping cart rattled in the distance, car doors slamming. And here was one of the most composed gentlemen you had ever known, prying your lips apart with his tongue, and sweeping inside to taste. 

His breath punctuated his movement, harsh sounds relaying his desperation. Each smack of your lips drew heat into your abdomen, accumulating, eventually seeping from between your thighs. 

"Please do," you urged, "fall for me completely as I have for you."

His heart thudded against your chest, lips departing from your mouth to trail over your jawline. Above, flakes of snow swirled, caught in the overhead lights of the parking lot. They littered his hair, dots of white against raven-black. Your hand raked over them, the minor chill exhilarating. 

"I love you," he rasped, navigating to your neck, "couldn't you tell by the way I fucked you."

"Perhaps I need to reassess your performance."

His chuckle was saturated in mirth, "I always recommend a reevaluation before submitting final results."

Pain erupted from the slope of your neck, his teeth capturing a portion of skin to pinch. He suckled, each pull confirmed with a messy lick of ease. 

"Where did those pretty sounds go?" He teased. 

"Zayne, we are in public!"

"I'll admit,” he paused, catching his breath, “there's something undeniably addictive about stepping out of line.”

He wasn’t finished. 

“I don’t know where to start with you,” he exhaled, as if restraining those words had been a considerable burden.

With your head tilted back, flakes rested upon the skin of your neck, thawing in time with each swallow. Droplets trailed down to soak your hoodie, and Zayne watched, eyes riveted by the slopes of your body. It gifted you some time to observe his mouth, and how those lips had finally touched yours. 

Your arms wrapped around his neck, and you rose, rising on the toes of your shoes to kiss him. He took one step back, bracing from your momentum. His body always had moved in ways that were subtle, never explosive, always a source of consolation. But his hands grasped, nearly clawing at your hips. An ache registered as he applied pressure, arresting your freedom, and yanking you against him. 

“Feel me,” his demand was carried by a whisper, hands roaming to your rear, nails digging into your flesh through your sweatpants. Your hiss was stolen by his ministrations, your body surrendering to his lead. “Feel exactly what you do to me.” 

You did. Pressed this close together, his length nudged against your navel. 

There was a joke buried in this situation, one hinting at the use of a cucumber. You would have verbalized it if it wasn’t for the onslaught of his lust. 

Your leg steepled, hooking your knee over the jut of his hip, cradling his cock in the vent of your heat. All he had to do was push your waistband down, undo his zipper, and vault his hips forward, sinking deep into the crease of your cunt. 

If he had wanted. 

Zayne wouldn’t. 

“The ice cream is melting,” he noted despite the reaction of his body as he lurched, driving the crown of his arousal over the outline of your pussy. “And we have perishables.” 

You knew him too well. 

“So shall we go?” You suggested. 

“It’s not safe to drive when distracted,” he reasoned. 

His hand dug into his pocket, procuring his keys. The car beeped, his arm outstretched, hand grasping the handle for the backseat. Your heart stumbled to a near stop, your limbs would be tangled in the narrow space provided, the windows would fog, and the chassis might rock. 

Zayne had a plan, the glint of his eyes ensuring security. 

With a voice laden in satin, he ordered regardless, 

“Get in.”

You weren't official family. That was the problem, the one that the Farspace Fleet kept running into every time you called. Childhood bonds didn't have paperwork. Shared trauma didn't have a form number. The promise made in the darkness of his room more than a year ago didn't hold any legal weight, and so every time you called you got the same automated voice, the same words in the same order.

The expedition into the deepspace flux zone is ongoing. All communications are classified under Level 4 security protocols.

You'd stopped counting how many times you'd heard it.

A week ago rumors started moving through the hunter channels, spreading fast and going quiet the moment an official walked into a room. A collapse inside the tunnel. A squadron cut off from the extraction point. You'd cornered a senior officer at the Association headquarters and watched her look at everything in the room except your face while she told you to prepare for the worst. As if that was a sentence you were supposed to absorb and go home.

They were writing him off. Filling in forms. Moving toward the moment where they'd call it officially and send you a letter with his name at the top and a condolences paragraph at the bottom, and the universe would have taken him from you a second time. The first time had been the explosion. You'd been clueless then, and the grief had carved something out of you that had never fully grown back. Thirty two days of silence and you could feel those same edges again, the same hollow shape of a loss you didn't know how to survive this time.

You'd spent the last two days crying under your duvet without a reason to come out.

2:14 AM. The front door clicked.

You sat up so fast the blood rushed out of your head. Sat completely still in the dark, heart hammering, telling yourself it was nothing— probably a neighbor's door, your own exhausted mind making up sounds it wanted to hear. You'd been doing that. Hearing things. Seeing his face in the corner of your eye on the street and turning to find a stranger.

Heavy footsteps in the hallway. A duffel bag dropped onto the hardwood floor. The weight of it, the carelessness of someone too exhausted to set something down gently, sent something electric straight up your spine.

You got out of bed. Your legs weren't entirely reliable. You caught the door frame, steadied yourself, crossed the hallway on autopilot with your heart somewhere in your throat.

The bathroom light was on. Through the glass the steam was already building, the shower ran hard and hot, and you could smell it from the doorway—your shampoo.

You pushed the door open.

The steam rolled out around you, warm and thick, and through the clear panel of the shower glass—

Caleb.

He didn't know you were there yet.

He was standing under the water with his forehead pressed against the tile, shoulders rising and falling. The water was too hot—you could tell because the steam was already thick enough to blur the far wall—but he wasn't adjusting it. Just standing in it. Letting it hit the back of his neck and run down the lines of his shoulders to carry whatever he'd brought back with him down the drain.

His skin was pale, the kind of pale that came from a month without real sunlight, and every muscle in his back was wound so tight it looked painful.

He looked like he had fought his way to a door and wasn't entirely sure yet that he'd made it through.

His head turned.

His eyes found yours through the condensation and steam, bloodshot from lack of sleep and completely awake in an instant, and the look on his face when he saw you standing there—the unguarded relief of it—hit you somewhere behind your ribs and stayed there.

He reached back to shut the water off then stepped out without reaching for a towel, water running off his shoulders and chest, steam rising off his skin. He looked different. Harder at the edges. Several days of dark stubble caught the harsh bathroom light and he looked nothing like the man who'd kissed you goodbye a month ago, or he looked exactly like that man, just with everything worn closer to the surface, less of it contained.

Neither of you spoke. You weren't sure you could. The reality of him standing in front of you—breathing, dripping water onto the floor—was still making its way through days of silence and the grief of someone who had already lost him once and had spent the last forty eight hours preparing to do it again.

"Caleb." It came out barely a sound.

He crossed the bathroom floor in three steps, water trailing behind him, and his hand wrapped around your wrist. His grip was warm, real and it made your eyes sting immediately. He didn't say anything. He just held you for a moment, his thumb pressed against your pulse point, and let you feel that he was there.

He kept hold of your wrist the whole way. Down the hall, through the door of your room, until your shoulders found a wall and he stopped in front of you. The sight of him, still yours, broke something open in your chest that you'd been holding very carefully shut.

"Caleb,—the fleet, they—I thought you were—"

"I'm right here." His voice came out rough, scraped down to something raw and unrecognizable, nothing of his usual warmth in it yet. "Forget what they said. I'm right here. I'm safe."

He placed his palms against the wall on either side of your head, steadying the space around you like he always had. The heat coming off his skin was startling against the cool air of the bedroom. You looked up at him, at the dark sharp lines of his jaw and the thick stubble that made him look exhausted and more real than anything you'd let yourself imagine in the last four weeks.

"Look at you," he said quietly, eyes moving over your face, your shaking hands, "Why are you trembling. It's okay." His voice dropped further. "I've got you."

"I thought you were dead." The first sob broke through before you could stop it "They wouldn't tell me anything, Caleb. They told me to prepare for the worst, I didn't know what that—fuck, I did know what it meant and I couldn't—"

"I know." He pulled you away from the wall and buried his face in the curve of your neck, you felt the rough drag of his stubble against your skin and gasped. He breathed you in slowly, deeply, his whole chest expanding against yours. "I know what they're like." His arms tightened around you. "But I promised you. I have always promised you. I fought my way out of that tunnel because leaving you again was not an option."

His hands moved down and without any warning he hooked his hands under your thighs and lifted you clean off the floor.

You wrapped your legs around his waist on instinct, hands flying to his shoulders. Your shorts rode up with the movement, bare thighs pressing against the heat of his hips.

"Baby—"

His mouth came down on yours.

It wasn't desperate in the way you'd expected. It was slower than that, deeper, a kiss that had too much behind it to rush. A month of darkness, cold and whatever he'd fought through to get back to you, all of it pressing into the way his lips moved against yours, his tongue parting your mouth in a heavy stroke that made your fingers curl into his damp hair and pull.

He shifted your weight, pressing your spine gently but firmly into the wall, and you felt the full length of his cock against you through the thin fabric of your shorts—already hard, already searching for the closeness you both needed, his hips moving in a slow rhythm that mirrored exactly what his mouth was doing.

He broke the kiss just far enough to look at you again.

"I'm here," he said, his words almost too quiet to hear. "Right here. I'm not going anywhere."

"I need—" Your voice broke, tears were streaming down your face. "Please. I need to feel you. I need to know you're actually—"

The sound that came out of him was pained. He lowered you until your feet touched the floor, keeping one arm tight around your waist, and his free hand went to your waistband, careful, guiding your shorts and underwear down together until they pooled at your ankles and you stepped out of them.

He straightened back up and you looked at each other in the quiet of the room. He was watching your face with an expression that made your throat close up again. The marks of the last month were all over him, the exhaustion, the weight loss, the hollowness around his eyes, and he was still the most beautiful man you'd ever seen.

He reached for the hem of your shirt and pulled it over your head, tossing it behind him without looking. Then he was back against you, chest to chest, and the heat of his body in front of you and the cool hard wall behind you made your breath leave you all at once.

His jaw dragged down your throat. The stubble was rough and you felt every millimeter of it, that scraping friction kept pulling you back into your body every time emotion threatened to pull you out of it. He was doing it on purpose. Making sure you felt him. "Right here," he said softly against your skin. "I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere. I'm yours."

There was nothing left to say that your body wasn't already saying for you.

He hooked one of your legs over his hip, his forearm sliding under your thigh to hold you there. His free hand moved between you, guiding himself to your entrance, and he paused—just for a breath, tip pressed against your heat—eyes on your face, waiting.

"Please. Now. Ca—"

He pressed forward and you buried your face in his neck.

The sob that came out of you surprised both of you. He felt it move through you and pulled you closer, both arms wrapping around you, his hands spread wide across your back.

"I've got you," he whispered, lips against your temple. "I've got you. I'm here."

He pulled back slowly. Almost all the way. Let you feel the drag of it, the absence, and then drove back in deeper.

"Caleb—" he swallowed the sound of his name with a sound of his own, low in his chest, his forehead dropping to yours.

He began to move and there was nothing fast about it. Just you and him.

The heat built fast anyway. Your nails found his back, his shoulders, whatever you could reach, and he let you—didn't flinch, didn't shift away, just kept moving in a steady rhythm while the wet sounds of it and both of your breathing filled up the room. Your tears were still falling and you stopped trying to do anything about them, just let them come while your mouth left marks on his body.

His shoulder pulled away from your mouth.

"Look at me." Came his voice, strained, like it cost him something to speak. "Let me see you."

You lifted your head. Your vision was a bit blurry, everything fractured through tears, but you could see him clearly enough, jaw clenched, neck tight, the muscles in his face working against something he was holding back.

"You don't have to be scared anymore," he rasped, hips driving forward again, finding a shorter faster rhythm that dragged against every nerve ending you had. "I'm right here, baby. I'm staying right here."

"I was so scared—" The words broke apart before you got through them, your body clenching around him in tight pulses. "Caleb, I thought—I kept calling and they wouldn't—and then she said to prepare and I didn't—"

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry you had to sit with that."

"Don't apologize—"

"Look at me," he said again, softer this time. "Stay with me."

He grabbed your other leg, hoisting you higher until you were fully suspended—nothing under you but him, every thrust finding someplace deeper, enough to make your whole body seize up and your head fall back against the wall.

"Oh—Caleb—I'm going to—I—"

"I've got you." He brought his face to your cheek, lips moving against the wet, salty skin there, breathing you in. "I've got you. Let go."

The past month collapsed into a single point in your chest and then detonated. Not just pleasure—though that rolled through you in long shaking waves—but everything under it. Every night staring at his empty side of the bed. Every time a voice said please await official updates. The two days under your duvet where you'd let yourself start to grieve him. All of it coming up at once, unstoppable, your whole body shaking with it while he held you against the wall and didn't let you fall.

"I love you," you sobbed into his neck, the words coming out in pieces. "I love you—I love you—"

"I know." His voice cracked on the second word. He was close. His lips pressed to your temple, your jaw, your wet cheek "I know, baby. I love you. I love you. I'm home."

He buried himself as deep as he could go, shaking, your name in his mouth like a prayer he'd been repeating for a month to keep himself moving forward.

He carried you to the bed eventually. Lay down with you still tangled against his chest, one hand moving slow up and down your back, the other tucked under his head.

"They really told you to prepare?"

"Three days ago."

He was quiet for a moment. His hand stilled on your back.

"They wouldn't tell me anything because I'm not—I'm not on any form. There's no box I fit in. I'm not—" You stopped. Felt your throat tighten again and breathed through it. "There's no paperwork that says I'm yours. So as far as they were concerned I was nobody and they owed me nothing."

Caleb didn't say anything. His chest rose and fell steadily.

"I need that to change"

"Okay," he said.

"I mean it, Caleb." You pushed yourself up onto your elbow and looked at him, his eyes were already on you. "I need it to actually change. Not someday. Not when things settle down or when the fleet rotation is easier or when we find a better time. I need—" your voice came out fierce and a little unsteady and you let it be both. "I need to be your wife. Legally. On every form and every document and every emergency contact line they have. I need there to be paperwork that says you're mine so that the next time someone tries to lock me out of a room where decisions are being made about your life, I can put it on their desk and they cannot say no to me."

He was very still.

"I'm not asking you to do something romantic," you said. "I'm not—this isn't about a ceremony or a dress or any of that, though I want all of that too, I do. I'm asking you because I spent a month being nobody to the people who had information about whether you were alive. I'm asking because I sat in this apartment with no legal right to know anything and I cannot do that again. I will not do that again."

Caleb looked at you for a long moment then he reached up and put his hand against the side of your face, his thumb brushing your cheekbone.

"I've wanted to ask you, I kept waiting for the right moment."

"This is the right moment."

"You're proposing to me at four in the morning."

"I am."

The corner of his mouth pulled up. The first real version of his smile you'd seen since he walked through the door, the one that reached all the way up, the one that was so him it made your chest ache.

He pulled you back down against him, arms wrapping around you, lips pressing to the top of your head and staying there. "First thing tomorrow we go to the registration office. We fill out every form they have. We put your name on everything."

You pressed your face into his chest and closed your eyes, this time it wasn't to wait for a notification that never came.

It was just to sleep.

Perm tag: @thealunari @i-idk-i-guess @hopelesslala @pearlescenthoney @stillseiims @xavisastrophil @thelastpolarbear @groovyravenagain @nanaminsmuse @darkairenkagamine @lunahaswings @ks-collection @calebunny @aweebs @crimsonrubie @lemurian-girl @aiycnlyme @grecianotes @yourlocalcatscammer @thicckage @goddesssevenseas @silvernight-m @little-lost-venus @gravitationalbluberry @b0nez9

The thought alone makes you smirk. I mean, did he really think you were going to reward him for being such a hardass? Some genius.

"G-getting close?" Zayne sucks in a breath, feeling your upcoming orgasm in the way you start moving faster, hips slamming down on him relentlessly. You moan when his fingers reach around to find your clit, circling tightly until you cry out, vision going white as you cum hard around his cock.

He's panting behind you, waiting the torturous time for you to recover, to keep moving. Zayne's a gentleman, so he won't rush you, even though he's painfully close to bursting.

You slip off his cock with ease, biting back a laugh when you hear him involuntarily whimper at the loss of your warmth. When you slip off the bed, still not sparing him a glance, he pipes up.

"Are you taking a break?" He questions, sitting up and watching you carefully. You turn and smile, shaking your head with mischief in your eyes.

"Nope, just going to shower."

"You're not..." Zayne trails off, truly baffled at this turn of events. Perhaps he'd catch on quicker if the blood was in his brain, not his cock.

"Going to help you finish? Now why would I do that?"

Sylus

You love kissing Sylus.

He's just so good at it. I mean, you'd think he would have at least one flaw, but nope. Just perfect. It was infuriating. Sometimes, you just wanted to piss him off just to see what he would do.

Sorta like tonight.

"O-oh fuck!" You gasp, hands braced against his chest as you bounce on his cock. Sylus is laid back, the picture of sex on a stick as he watches you, hands guiding your hips.

"Feeling good, sweetie?" He leans up to kiss you once more, smiling when you moan into it. It's a sloppy, messy kiss, but it only turns you on more.

"Y-yeah! God you're-you're so big." You wish you were exaggerating for the sake of his ego. Unfortunately for you, his ego was well earned. Sylus's cock was a thing to behold, and the son of a bitch knew it. Every time you struggled to sink down on it, he'd smile that same cocky smile that just made you want to punch him.

"I'm-I'm close!" You gasp, nails digging into his shoulders as you rock against him faster. He hums, eye burning bright red as your sheer desire overwhelms every one of his sense.

"Cum." He murmurs, smiling when you do it immediately. That stupid smile.

You're happy to see it falter when you sigh dramatically, rising off of his leaking cock and moving to get out of bed. A hand grabs your wrist, his brow raised.

"Forgetting something, sweetie?" He asks as if he truly thinks you're forgetting about him, and his orgasm.

"Hmm I don't think so. I mean, I came. So we're done, right?" You lean in to peck his cheek sweetly. He accepts it, but in a flash your bodies are flipped. Sylus pins you to the mattress, a grin splitting his face.

"I don't think we're done yet, kitten. If anything, you should cum a few more times. Right?"

Valko

Maybe it was mean.

Okay, it was definitely mean. Valko was such a softie, just the sweetest boyfriend in the whole world. Teasing him like this might be going a little too far, but isn't that what girlfriends are for?

"Please-please..." Valko whines into your mouth, holding you so close that instead of bouncing on his cock, you're really just grinding your hips against his.

"I-I know baby." You murmur, chest pressed against his so tight that it makes it a little hard to breath. He's working on his strength control after all.

"Feels-feels so good. You're so perfect." Praises fall from his lips every moment. His amber eyes might as well have hearts for pupils with the way he's looking at you, bright eyed and bushy tailed.

Well, his tail isn't out right now.

"You're-you're sweet too honey. God I-I'm close!" You gasp, managing to snake a hand between your bodies to circle your clit. Valko takes your nipple in his mouth, sharp canines scraping against it and making pleasure shoot through your spine. It's evil, how good he is at this.

But not as evil as you're about to be.

"God!" You nearly scream as you cum, head tossed back. Valko gasps at the sensation, not quite there yet. But you know he won't be far behind, so you have to act quickly, despite the aching in your legs from his unbelievable size.

You slip out of bed, but he immediately moves to follow you, frowning the moment he isn't touching you.

"Where-where are you going?" He pouts, trying to grab you. You do your best to act nonchalant, avoiding his sweet, pleading gaze.

"Just to shower! Is something wrong?"

"I...no. I guess not." He pulls a pillow in front of his cock, though you note that it's the pillow you sleep on, and his hips have already begun to buck into it.

"Well, alright! I'm gonna shower okay?"

"Wait! Can...can I join?"

"...Alright. Come on babe. You can finish in the shower."

Him and his damn puppy dog eyes.

Cheeks growing hot, you whipped around to find the hunter still staring.

"Hey." It's a great deal of strength in you to swallow back your anger. "Didn't Jenna ask for you over in Communications? You should probably go check up on that."

"Mmm. Yeah," she sighs dreamily. "Let me look a little longer, though."

Your lips form a deep pout, eyebrows furrowing with irritation. How dare he do that in such a public place, where other hunters could gawk at him all they pleased?

You're so focused on your wallowing that you keen at Xavier's eager hand around your throat. It doesn't even squeeze; it just rests there, heavy, teasing, as you zero in on the crinkle in his brows.

"You're not—mnghh—paying attention to me," he rasps, punctuating each word with a savoring slide of his fat, mushroom tip against that spongy spot of your front wall.

"No thinking about anything other than Xavier."

You think he's going to put pressure on your throat, but he relents, instead opting to lean further over your body. His firm chest brushes your pert nipples, sending shocks of sensitivity throughout your body every time your breats bounce at his thrusts.

"I am thinking about you," you shamelessly whine, nails beginning to scrape at his back for better leverage; Xavier gives a shuddering breath, moaning low and heavenly into your ear. "Thinkin' about how—haaahh, don't stop Xavi, oh gods…"

And he has the nerve to quirk an eyebrow at you, tongue peeking out as he lets his jaw drop just slightly. "Thinking about what? Finish your sentence, starlight."

"You." The bed creaks, and you yelp, fingernails digging even deeper into the muscle of his skin. "How—hic, how no one's allowed to have you but m-me!"

Xavier sighs—it's a soft, hoarse melody that leaves you a whimpering mess, cunt gushing another bout of your juices. They collect as a white, creamy ring at the base of his cock, spilling into his neatly trimmed hair. His thrusts turn slow, deep, more about power than anything else. And you love it.

"Riiight," he whispers with a hunger you've never seen before, pupils blown wide at your fucked out face. "That's right, love. I'm yours. This dick was made for your pussy, wasn't it?"

You nod frantically. "Yes, fuuuuck, Xav, harder, faster! Don't tease—please, please please!"

"Good girl." He suddenly changes his angle, ramming into you with no mercy, dick pressing up against your cervix. It's nasty, the squelch and spasming of your walls as he pulls you in for a kiss that's all bite and teeth and spit.

The only thing stopping you from falling limp on the bed like a rag doll is the steel grip you have on his back, claws raking down his trapezius as your shoulders shake with sobs. You think you might draw blood. Shit, you think you've already drawn blood, with how hard you're anchoring onto him.

Though, isn't that what you wanted? Raw, red marks that are irrevocably hard to deny and undoubtedly yours?

Lightning sparks down your spine at the thought and you give a fierce sob, desperately pushing back against Xavier's tongue with your own, melting into his touch while your nails create art along his back. He whines into the kiss when you curl your fingers, burying your nails into the back of his shoulder, and you're delighted at the sensation.

The next day, at the Association, you jump at the opportunity to witness Xavier train again. Simone accompanies you, as per usual, and you can't help the grin that sneaks out when he begins to strip from his uniform without a second thought.

Sure, the marks are fainter now, less red, but that doesn't take away from their meaning. Your eyes trail down his back muscles with pride, only looking away when Simone fake gags.

"Are you serious?" She makes a face, covering her eyes dramatically. "Was there really no other way?"

You only shrug, biting your lip with giddy as you watch the hunter from yesterday pale with shame from behind Simone.

"I only ask things once," you drawl, eyes finding the girl's and holding her stare. "Hey, Jenna asked for you in Communications again today, didn't she?"

She squeaks. Nods meekly. Makes a break for the locker room.

And you smirk.

As all things should be.

You kept checking your phone anyway. Paranoid he'd said something to the others, let something slip in the group chat without thinking, like he sometimes did when he was caught up in his own head. Nothing so far. That was either reassuring or a bad sign and you couldn't tell which.

But today was Wednesday. Wednesday meant math tutoring. Wednesday meant Xavier.

He'd been helping you with your math classes because he never sighed when you asked him to explain something twice. Never made you feel stupid for losing the thread halfway through a formula you'd understood perfectly ten minutes ago. He'd just turn the notebook around and start from the beginning, patient in an unhurried way that was so him. You'd gotten used to his dorm, his desk, the way he organized his notes in colored tabs that he denied caring about.

What you hadn't gotten used to was the five days of silence sitting between you now. Or the fact that the last time you'd seen him, he'd been on his knees with his face between your thighs and his fingers inside of you.

You shook your head hard, like that was going to do anything.

The morning had been a whole exercise in damage control. You'd stood in front of your mirror for a long time, turning sideways, checking necklines, holding up three different tops before settling on a sweater. The marks Rafayel had left weren't subtle—he'd been thorough about that, almost pointedly so—and the last thing you needed was Xavier noticing something you'd have to explain. Comfortable sweater. Favorite jeans. Just enough makeup to look like you'd rolled out of bed this way, which had taken an embarrassing amount of effort to pull off. You'd looked at yourself in the mirror and thought, this is fine, then left before you could change your mind.

Campus was busy, it was mid afternoon and people were moving between buildings, someone's music was bleeding out of a cracked window on the second floor of the humanities block. You walked with your hands in your pockets and tried to think about literally anything else.

It didn't work. Your brain kept circling back to that night in Zayne's dorm.

You arrived at his building a few minutes early on purpose, not wanting to be standing awkward in the hallway when he showed up. The spare key he'd given you months ago—back when this was all still simple, back when tutoring was just tutoring—was already in your hand before you reached the door. You let yourself in, dropped your bag on the desk, and stood in the middle of the room for a moment just breathing. It smelled like him in here.

You pulled out your textbook. Pulled out your notebook. Uncapped a pen, stared at the blank page, and wrote the date at the top like that counted as being productive.

He'd be back from lecture any minute. You pressed the pen down harder on the page and stared at the date until the words stopped swimming.

----------

Xavier had been having a terrible day and was not going to pretend otherwise.

The past two days had been running on a loop he couldn't shut off. He'd seen Rafayel walking with you across campus. He knew that look on Rafayel's face. He knew it because he felt it himself every time you were within arm's reach.

Since Zayne's dorm, Xavier had been hiding a hunger that had nothing to do with food. He'd had his mouth on you. Had felt you cum on his tongue and he hadn't been able to stop thinking about it.

You hadn't texted back. Not once in five days, not even a heads up about today. He'd checked his phone every 30 minutes and by early afternoon he'd made his peace with the fact that you weren't going to show up and settled into a foul mood about it.

It was jealousy. He wasn't going to dress it up. He'd been crazy about you since day one and the idea of Rafayel getting there first while he sat in his dorm being patient and reasonable was the kind of thing that made a bad day significantly worse.

All he wanted to do was sleep. Maybe eat something. Sit in the quiet of his room and not think about any of it for a few hours.

He unlocked his door, pushed it open—

And stopped.

You were at his desk. Exactly where you always sat, textbook open, pen in hand, looking up at him the second you heard the door.

"Hey," you said softly, and smiled.

Xavier didn't move.

He stood in there with his keys in hand and just looked at you. The afternoon light from the window. The way you were watching him, trying to read him. The small smile that was starting to waver as you noticed something was off.

He dropped his keys on a small table and stepped inside, letting the door fall shut behind him.

"You look tired," you said carefully.

"I am."

"We can reschedule." Standing to give your back to him you started stacking things, moving with a nervous energy he'd learned to recognize over several months of Wednesday afternoons. " You should rest and we can figure out another—"

"I've been texting you for five days"

You went still. Your hand stayed flat on your notebook.

"I know,"

"And you've been what...Busy."

It wasn't a question and you both knew the answer. You looked at him and he watched you try to figure out what version of the truth to offer.

"I just needed some time," you said finally. "To think."

"About what happened?"

"Yes."

Xavier unslung his bag and let it drop to the floor. He crossed the room without rushing, footsteps silent on the rug, and came to stand directly behind you. He felt you register how close he was, the slight change in your breathing, your shoulders pulling in just slightly.

He didn't touch you yet.

"And?" he said, low, right behind your ear. "What did you decide?"

"Xavier—"

"I've been thinking about it too." His hand found your waist, fingers curling into the soft fabric of your sweater "Every single day."

You made a small sound, your knuckles had gone white around the notebook.

"I thought—" you started and then stopped.

"What?"

"I thought maybe it would be easier if we just... didn't talk about it."

He almost laughed. "How's that working for you?"

"Not great," you admitted, barely a whisper.

His lips found the skin just below your ear—barely, just the suggestion of a kiss, the warmth of his mouth hovering more than landing—and the breath you pulled in was loud enough for him to hear.

"You've been avoiding all of us"

"I haven't—"

"You are taking a different way to class now." Another barely there brush of his lips, this time along your jaw. "I've seen you."

Your knees buckled slightly.

"You're not going to say anything?" he asked softly.

"You're not giving me a lot of room to talk."

"You've had five days to talk."

"That's—" You let out a shaky breath. "That's not fair."

"You're right." His lips brushed along your jaw again, in no particular rush. "It's not."

Despite everything, something close to a laugh escaped you, breathless and reluctant. Your fingers were still around the notebook, the only thing keeping you grounded.

"You are genuinely terrible at math and you still show up every week. You're not scared of hard things."

You went very still.

"So stop running," he said. Simple.

Before you could find an answer to that, both his hands settled on your hips—grip firm—to turn you around and then lifted you onto the desk in one easy motion, papers scattering off the edge to the floor.

Neither of you looked at them.

Your arms went around his shoulders and you held on, fingers twisting into his shirt. He leaned in close and stopped just short of your mouth. His lips brushed yours so lightly it barely counted.

"Do you want me to stop?"

You shook your head.

"Words." His thumb pressed into soft skin under your sweater, "Bunny."

You looked at him and noticed the sleepy ease was completely gone. What replaced it was something dark and very, very hungry.

"Don't stop"

He stepped between your knees.

His mouth came down on yours and his hands gripped your thighs to hold you at the edge of the desk. He kissed you with the full weight of however long he'd been waiting to do exactly this. Months of Wednesday afternoons. Months of watching you chew the end of your pen, pretending he wasn't. His tongue slid into your mouth and you felt all of it at once, his patience and restraint and the end of both.

When he broke away his hands dropped straight to your waistband—button, zipper, no hesitation—head down, focused entirely on the task. You pulled your sweater over your head. He didn't look up. You got the sweater off and dropped it somewhere and sat there in your bra watching him work the denim down your legs.

The jeans hit the floor and his eyes moved up your body, you watched the shift happen. His focus didn't leave his face, it changed into something else. Something colder. You'd seen that expression exactly once before, at a party freshman year when a guy behind you had gotten too comfortable, and Xavier had gone very still across the room. He hadn't even needed to move. The guy saw him and took two steps back on instinct.

He was looking at your chest.

The bruises. Rafayel's bruises. Clear in the afternoon light. The silence in the room was excruciating.

"Was this—" He stopped and then started again, quieter. One thumb came up and traced the edge of the darkest mark with a touch so light it made your throat tighten, while his other hand found your hip and held it in a grip that was the opposite of light. "Rafayel."

He already knew the answer and was just giving you the chance to say it.

You nodded. Your voice wasn't available.

The sound he made was low. Short. A sound that meant something had cracked open and he was choosing not to let out all the way. He stood there for a second with his thumb still resting against the bruise and then he got his hands under the backs of your thighs, lifting you off the desk.

He carried you to his bed and set you down against the sheets, the light from the window was not on your side—it hit every mark with even more clarity, nothing softened, nothing hidden. Xavier stood over you and looked at them for long enough that you started to feel every single one.

"He paints like he does everything else," he said as he climbed over you, hands trailing down your sides. "Loud and fast. Like the point is for everyone to know he was there." His fingers traced the edge of each bruise, one after the other, "He wasn't thinking about you. He was thinking about what he wanted to leave behind."

"Xav—"

"I'm not angry at you." His eyes came up to yours briefly, clear about that. "I'm not."

He reached behind you and unhooked your bra with one hand, pulling it off and dropping it over the side of the bed. The breath he drew in through his nose when he saw more bruises all over your soft breasts was slow and controlled.

"He's known you two years," Xavier said, almost to himself, hands cupping you, thumbs moving in slow circles across your skin. "Two years and he still went at you like he was on a timer." His eyes flicked up. "Were you even ready?"

The question caught you completely off guard.

"I—yes."

"Did he ask?"

"He did"

His hands moved back to your waist, then the waistband of your panties—slow the whole way down, no sudden movements, making a point about the difference between his way and the alternative.

He pulled them off and sat back on his heels to look at you for a moment.

"I've known you for two years too," his hand ran up the inside of your calf, unhurried, no destination. "I know when you're stuck before you say anything. I know which problems make you want to give up and which ones just need more time." His palm reached your knee and stopped. "He doesn't know any of that. He doesn't know you."

His eyes came up to yours and held there, you knew he wasn't just talking about math problems anymore.

"I do," he said. Not a boast. Just a fact he'd been sitting on for a while.

His hand moved higher, and your breath caught, the afternoon light kept falling across both of you while the room got really warm, really fast.

His hand pressed flat against your pussy and you felt it everywhere, a warm steady pressure right where you'd been aching since he'd lifted you onto the desk. He held it there and then his body slid lower on the mattress and his mouth found the inside of your thigh.

"You're soaked" he murmured against your skin, and you could feel him almost smiling when he said it.

"Xavie—"

"I heard you." He pressed his lips to the other thigh, higher this time, dragging slow. " And no matter what you say, I'm not rushing."

Your hips lifted off the bed and his hands came down on them immediately, pinning you back to the mattress without looking up.

"I need you to—"

"I know what you need." His mouth moved higher. Still not close enough. "That's exactly why I'm taking my time."

You made a sound that was mostly frustration and he had the audacity to hum against your inner thigh like he was perfectly comfortable staying there all afternoon.

"Please..."

He looked up from between your thighs, chin resting against your skin, watching your face with that particular focus that had been driving you insane for months. "Tell me what you want."

"You know what I want."

"I want to hear you say it."

Your hands twisted into the sheets. "My pussy. I want your mouth on my pussy."

His next kiss landed directly beside where you needed him, deliberately off center, and you cursed loud enough that it surprised both of you.

"Say it again," he said, lips hovering close enough now that you could feel his warm breath.

"Xavier, I swear to god—"

"Again."

"I want you to eat my pussy." The words came out steadier than you expected.

That was what he'd been waiting for. Not the polite version of you that sat across from him every Wednesday with a highlighter and a textbook. He wanted the other one. The one underneath that. The one that had come apart in Zayne's dorm and hadn't fully put herself back together since.

His mouth found your clit.

Your hands flew to his hair before a moan finished leaving your throat, fingers twisting in, and your thighs tried to close around his head on reflex—too much, too direct—but his hands had your legs pinned wide.

"Don't," he said against you.

"I can't—it's too—"

"You can." He pressed a single open mouthed kiss to your entrance "Stay open for me."

Then his tongue moved again. Long, slow strokes from your entrance all the way up to your clit, learning you, tasting how long you'd been waiting for this to happen again. You stopped trying to be quiet. Stopped trying to be anything in particular. Your hips rocked against his mouth and your fingers pulled at his hair. He swallowed every bit of you and kept going.

Your hips rolled harder, chasing pressure, and Zayne's voice surfaced somewhere in the back of Xavier's head with terrible timing.

"Her body will tell you when she's ready to take control. Give it to her when she does. There needs to be trust, or she'll feel uncomfortable."

Xavier pulled his mouth off you.

The noise you made was indignant. "Don't you —"

"Come here." He was moving, shifting his body flat against the mattress, hands at your waist pulling you up with him. "Up."

"Fuck, I was literally about to—"

"I know." He looked up at you from where he was lying, mouth still wet "Come up here."

You stared at him. He waited. His hands were steady on your hips.

"You want me to—"

"Sit on my face." He said it the same way he explained math. Clear. Direct. No room for misunderstanding. "Put your weight down and let me finish what I started."

His words made your face go hot all over again. You shifted forward anyway, bringing your knees to either side of his head, hovering just above him.

"You're not sitting down," he observed.

"I'm aware."

"I'm not going to break."

"I know that."

"Then—"

"I'm just—" You exhaled. "Give me a second."

He gave you time. His hands stayed loose on your hips, not pulling, just present. Waiting. His eyes were on your face the whole time, just watching you work through whatever was keeping you hovering five inches above him.

"What if I'm too—"

"You're not."

"You don't know what I was going to say."

"You were going to say too heavy, or too much, or something like that." His thumbs moved against your hip bones. "You're not. I promise you're not."

Something in your chest went a little loose at that.

You let your weight down.

His hands pulled your hips flush against his face the second you did, tongue finding your clit immediately and the sound that came out of you echoed off every wall in the room. Your hands grabbed his shoulders and then his forearms, whatever you could reach, your whole body trembling with the effort of staying upright.

He was thorough, paying attention to every small reaction. Every time your breath snagged on a particular stroke he came back to it. Every time your thighs tensed he slowed down and built it back up from the beginning. Your fingers ended in his hair, pulling harder than you meant to, and he made a rough sound against you that meant he didn't mind.

"Xavie—" His name came out wrecked "Fuck, I'm gonna—please, I—"

His mouth lifted.

"Nononononono, I will fucking ki—"

"Ask me." his hands were holding you just above his lips with an iron grip. "Properly."

"I'm going to kill you."

"Ask me first."

You looked down at him—hair completely destroyed, mouth slick, looking up at you with those eyes and something short circuited in your brain.

"Please make me cum," you begged. "Please—"

"Dirtier."

Your face went crimson. His expression didn't change.

"Please," you said, the embarrassment burning through your whole body and dissolving into something else, "make my needy pussy cum on your mouth."

He groaned, the sound vibrating against the inside of your thigh as he pulled you down hard and put his mouth back on you, making every previous thing feel like a warm up.

He used his thumb and middle finger to spread your pussy open, forefinger lifting the little hood over your clit so there was nothing between the bundle of nerves and his tongue. He licked into you in heavy, soaking strokes, relentless and consuming, like he'd been waiting specifically for those words and was paying back every second of the wait.

You broke. Completely and loudly and without a single shred of composure.

Your hands twisted so hard into his hair you felt him grunt against you, thighs shaking around his head, his name and sounds that weren't words spilling out of you into the quiet of his dorm room while the light from the window fell across both of you steady and indifferent.

He didn't stop. Even after. Even when you were too sensitive to bear it and your hands were pushing weakly at his head instead of pulling, he kept his tongue moving through every aftershock, slow now, drawing out every last shiver, like stopping would mean missing something he wasn't willing to miss.

"Please stop, Xavie—"

"But you just said—" he started.

"Don't."

"—very clearly, very specifically—"

"Xavier."

"—that you wanted—"

"Don't say it"

"—you are being," he paused and smiled "remarkably shy. We've done this twice"

"I hate you."

"No you don't." His hands were still on your hips. "Sit down again. I'm not done"

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Your body relaxes into him despite every rational thought screaming at you to move. It's alright, you can just savor this moment, right? It's not like it was a conscious thing. The two of you just happened to migrate closer in this ridiculously large bed, drawn together by some random gravitational pull. You cuddled like normal humans do. Completely platonic. Nothing to read into.

“Are you awake?”

If your heart wasn’t pounding before, it is now. His voice is rough with sleep, a low rumble that you feel as much as hear, and it sends a shiver down your spine that you desperately hope he doesn't notice.

“Y-yeah.” You admit, tilting your head up to look at him. His hair is a disheveled mess, sticking up in ways you've never seen, and his eyes are still half-lidded with exhaustion. It's the most unguarded you've ever seen him, no professional mask in sight. That's probably why he's made no move to let go of you yet.

“You had a nightmare last night. Do you remember what it was about?” His grip around your waist releases, so you reluctantly untangle yourself from him, though you try to hide your disappointment while you shift to face him. The loss of his warmth is immediate, and you have to resist the urge to reach for him again.

"Hmm…I don't think so." You search your memory, finding nothing. "I didn't say anything, right?" A sudden fear strikes your heart. What if you'd confessed something in your sleep? What if you'd murmured his name, whispered something that gave away the years of longing you'd carefully hidden?

But Zayne shakes his head, and the tension in your shoulders eases. "No, you didn't say anything comprehensible. But you seemed very agitated. You only calmed down once I moved closer.” If he finds anything odd about that, he doesn’t say.

Instead, he studies you for a long moment, and then slips out of bed. You hold back on trying to call out after him, to understand why, instead of waking you from the nightmare, he’d chosen to cradle you in his arms. And why he hadn’t wondered why it worked.

Of course, before you can linger on the thought, your phone buzzes.

Tara: Hope you’re feeling well rested! We’re gonna meet on the beach for team volleyball if you guys want to join <33

"Zayne?" You call out, propping yourself up on your elbows. "Some of my colleagues are going to play volleyball on the beach."

He peeks his head out of the bathroom, toothbrush in hand. You almost immediately cringe at your tone of voice, the way it had come out like you were asking for permission, like you needed his approval. But he doesn't comment.

"We can join them if you'd like?" A ghost of a smile plays on his face, and you feel your chest loosen. You'll take it. Really, you'd take anything he's willing to give.

After an only slightly awkward morning of getting dressed and tiptoeing around each other, both of you carefully avoiding eye contact as you pass each other in the small space, you head out for the beach.

The sun is high and warm, the sand soft beneath your sandals. Once again, Zayne takes your bag from you without asking, quieting your protests with an amused look. You know you should let him do boyfriend things, that it's part of the act, but something about it makes your heart ache every time. How were you supposed to go back to normal life after this? How were you supposed to return to friendly lunches and professional touches when you'd had this?

“Are those your friends?” Zayne points out a group of people, who soon spot you two and begin waving furiously.

“Yeah…that’s them.”

Not everyone had arrived in time for dinner last night, so you find yourself once again introducing Zayne to a new round of faces. You try not to cringe when someone asks for the story again, but Zayne swoops in before you can stumble through it, his hand finding the small of your back as he launches into the practiced tale. He's so smooth about it, so natural, that even you almost believe him.

"I figured you weren't going to come." Xavier's quiet voice pulls you from your thoughts, all of which center around the warmth of Zayne's hand on your back. You'd almost forgotten he was coming.

"Hm? Oh um…we didn't think Zayne would get the vacation time." You force a smile, hoping to hide your nerves. Xavier is annoyingly perceptive, and he's worked with you enough to know when you're lying. Hell, he can probably read it in the slight tremor of your voice and the way you won't quite meet his eyes. But he doesn't say anything.

"Who's this?" Zayne's hand slides from your back to your hip, pulling you just a fraction closer. You almost immediately go rigid, your breath catching in your throat. His palm is warm even through the thin fabric of your swimsuit coverup, and you can feel the imprint of his fingers like a brand. Xavier's brow raises at your clear surprise, and you mentally curse yourself.

"This is Xavier!" You say, too brightly. "I've mentioned him before, right? We go on a lot of missions together."

Zayne nods in understanding, though something flickers in his eyes, something you can't quite name. He doesn't seem as polite as he was last night, his handshake with Xavier brief and stiff before he moves just a little closer to you, his body angled to block you slightly.

Huh.

"Well um, we should go before they start volleyball without us, right? Come on Zayne!" You're quick to pull him away from the conversation, casting Xavier a pleading look over your shoulder, one that says please don't tell anyone this isn't actually my boyfriend. He nods, but you swear you see the corner of his mouth twitch, fighting a smile.

You thought you knew almost everything about Zayne. But what he never mentioned that he was incredible at volleyball.

"This is hardly fair! I demand a rematch!" Simone complains as Zayne once again spikes the ball, managing to score the winning point. The ball hits the sand with a satisfying thud, and the opposing team groans in defeat.

You cheer, high-fiving him as your team celebrates around you. He hadn't lost a single point, in every match. His reflexes were insane, his aim impeccable, and he moved across the sand with an athletic grace that left you breathless every time.

It was so hot. And not temperature wise.

"I'd be happy to play again," Zayne says to Simone, his tone almost teasing, "but I suspect a similar outcome."

You grin at him, trying not to let your gaze linger too long on his outfit. Well, if you could call loosely slung board shorts and nothing else an outfit. The sun catches the water droplets on his skin, tracing the lines of his shoulders and chest, and you have to physically force yourself to look away before you start drooling.

"I'll grab some water. Start preparing our victory speech." You smile, turning to head over to the cooler as he sits down under an umbrella, accepting a towel from one of your colleagues.

"Here." Xavier props open the cooler for you, helping you dig through the ice for some water bottles. You can feel his gaze on you as you take a sip, assessing you. With a heavy sigh, you give up.

"Were we that obvious?" You murmur, eyes downcast as you pick at the label on your bottle.

"Not at first." Xavier shrugs, leaning casually against the plastic cooler. "But I always kiss my girlfriend after we win, and you two only ever high five.”

He points it out so casually, so matter-of-factly, that it takes a moment for the implication to land. Your eyes flit over to Zayne, who's nodding along to Simone's dramatic reenactment of her match against Xavier, her hands flying as she describes his "unfair" serves.

He meets your eyes across the sand, his head tilting ever so slightly when he notices you standing frozen with the water bottle in hand. You wave, a small gesture, and he nods back before returning his attention to Simone.

You move to stand up, ready to head back, when Xavier's voice stops you.

"You should know…he isn't faking."

For a moment, you just stare at him. The words hang in the air between you, heavy with implication. Surely he isn't saying what you think he's saying? Surely he can't mean-

"Xavier I don't think-”

"Trust me." Xavier's expression is unreadable, but his voice is certain. "If you're worried he doesn't feel the same way, you shouldn't be."

He shrugs, like he hasn't just upended your entire world, and stands up, dusting the sand off his shorts. You're left dumbfounded as he simply walks away, joining his partner under their umbrella with an easy motion.

You take another sip of water just to give yourself something to do, your mind reeling. Maybe Zayne had been a little…different lately. The hand-holding that lingered a second too long. The sandwiches made exactly the way you liked them. The way he'd held you through the night. But he was just helping you out, right? Being a good friend and definitely a good fake boyfriend.

Then again…why was he keeping the act up when the two of you were alone? No one was watching when he made sure your nightmare stopped, when he tucked his jacket around your shoulders. That wasn't for show.

Was it seriously possible that Zayne actually wanted to be your boyfriend?

Before you can toss the idea aside as wishful thinking, he appears beside you, taking the spare water bottle from your hand with an amused smile.

"Are you overheating?" He presses the back of his hand to your forehead, his touch cool against your warm skin. You brush him off with a small smile, shaking away the thoughts that cloud your mind.

"I'm fine, Doctor." You manage. "You must have worked up quite an appetite. Let's get some lunch?"

The rest of the day flies by, filled with various team events and activities. Zayne gets along with everyone well, something you'd expected to happen, really. He's charming when he wants to be, and your colleagues seem to have accepted him effortlessly into the group. But around dinner time, everyone splits off for some alone time, and you and Zayne find yourselves on a solo date at a small restaurant overlooking the water.

"Should we cheers?" You hold your glass of wine up, the deep red liquid catching the candlelight. The food on your plate is mostly finished, and you feel warm and content, a pleasant buzz from the day and the company.

But Zayne hesitates, glancing at his wine glass almost nervously. His fingers wrap around the stem, but he doesn't lift it.

"I don't drink very often." He warns, a note of caution in his voice. "My tolerance is quite low."

"What, you can't have a single sip?" You smirk, emboldened by your own wine. "I never pegged you for such a lightweight, Zayne."

Something flickers in his eyes at the challenge, and he clinks his glass against yours. He lifts it to his lips and takes a small sip, his brows lifting slightly in surprise.

"It's sweet." He notes, glancing at the liquid as if reassessing it.

Before you can warn him to pace himself, he tips his head back and downs the rest of it in one smooth motion.

Well. At least a drunk Zayne would be interesting, right?

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Two years of this. Two years and it still stopped him on his tracks every single time.

To anyone who shared a class with him, Valko was the guy with half rimmed glasses, soft sweaters, neckband headphones around his collar like he'd forgotten they were there, a battered copy of whatever textbook he was working through dog eared on his desk. He took meticulous notes in handwriting that was almost too neat.

He called his mother every Sunday without fail, usually from the kitchen while something was already on the stove. He brought back containers of homemade food after weekend visits home and left them in the fridge with little labeled lids because he knew you'd forget to eat otherwise.

He was, by every reasonable measure, a gentle giant with a soft spot for his family and an embarrassing weakness for old equipment manuals.

The wolf underneath all of that was another matter entirely.

He'd stopped trying to logic his way out of it somewhere around month six of your lease. The obsession had settled into him quietly, the way water finds the shape of whatever holds it—gradual, total, and by the time he noticed, already everywhere. He loved the way you laughed when he miscalculated a doorframe carrying furniture. He loved that you used his arm like a headrest when you were tired without seeming to notice you were doing it. He loved that you trusted him with the small, unglamorous parts of your life—the bad days, the grocery runs at midnight, the moments when you needed someone solid nearby without having to explain why.

He told himself it was just closeness. That it was natural, living with someone this long. That plenty of people felt this way about their roommates.

He was lying to himself and he knew it.

You never noticed the small things. That was the part that made it simultaneously easier and worse.

You didn't notice the way his jaw tightened every time you mentioned Caleb's name in passing. You didn't notice that when he draped his coat over your shoulders on cold nights, he always took a moment longer than necessary to settle it there, his hands resting briefly on your shoulders, his nose dipping almost imperceptibly toward your hair. You didn't notice the way his whole body oriented toward you when you moved through a room, like a plant turns toward a window without deciding to.

Two years of this and you'd noticed none of it.

Caleb, though. Caleb was a different kind of problem.

The name sat wrong in Valko's mouth every time he heard it. Your boyfriend. The pilot stationed out in Skyhaven, the one who'd existed in Valko's life as nothing more than a name and a reason you packed a bag every other weekend. You always went to him. A wave from the doorway, a small oveñnight bag, the shuttle to Skyhaven. Back by Sunday night, sometimes Monday morning if the transit ran slow.

Two years, and Valko had never once seen him. Fine. He could work with that.

What he couldn't work with was the scent. Or rather, the complete absence of it.

It defied every instinct he had. A man who kept a woman—who spent weekends with her, who held her hand and her body—should leave something behind. It was a biological fact, not a sentiment. Every time you came home from Skyhaven, Valko would brace for it. Would stand in the hallway with his teeth ground together preparing to smell another man all over you.

Every single time, there was nothing.

Just you. Clean and warm, like you'd spent the weekend alone in a hotel and not with someone who was supposed to love you. No territorial overlap. No claim. Nothing.

It didn't reassure him. It made him furious. A man who loved you would mark you without even trying—it would just happen, the natural consequence of closeness and time. The fact that it hadn't happened said something.

He doesn't know what he has.

Since Caleb clearly wasn't going to handle it, Valko had decided— without discussing it with anyone, including himself—to handle it instead.

It had started small. Sitting on your side of the couch when you were out because "the lamp was better over there". Leaning in your doorframe a beat longer than necessary. Gradually, the apartment had become his in ways that only his own nose could confirm. Your throw blanket carried him now. The pillow on the left side of your bed—your side—carried him. He'd lie across your mattress on the afternoons you were in seminar, shoulders rolling slow against the sheets, transferring the scent from the back of his neck and the inside of his wrists onto everything you'd touch when you slept.

He wanted to be the reason the room felt safe to you, even if you'd never know why.

The laundry had come later. He'd started folding yours without being asked because it was a practical thing to do, a completely normal roommate thing—and if his hands slowed over certain items, if he stood in the laundry room for longer than strictly necessary with warm shirts pressed to his face, that was between him and the four walls.

He wasn't proud of the drawer.

Your scent there was undiluted, something the rest of the apartment couldn't match—private, concentrated, intimate. The first time he'd opened it he'd been looking for your spare key. He'd stood there for a long time, glasses pushed up into his hair, one hand braced on your dresser, taking slow careful breaths and trying to remember what reasonable behavior felt like.

He'd gone back to his room. He'd thought about you.

He'd told himself it would clear his head.

It had not cleared his head.

Two days ago he stood in front of your closet with his heart going faster than he wanted to admit.

You'd been out getting groceries. His hand moved through your dirty clothes on autopilot, past the jeans, past the sweaters, until his fingers closed around silk.

Soft. Warm from being buried against other fabric. Almost nothing against the width of his palm.

He lifted them to his face before he'd fully decided to.

There was your scent, the core of it. He stood there breathing it in with his eyes closed and his chest heaving, and then, he searched. Every thread. Looking for any trace of another man underneath yours.

Nothing. Just you. Entirely unmarked you.

The growl that came out of him was low enough that only he could hear it.

Something about that absence sent a rush of heat down his spine that he wasn't prepared for. His back had found the closet wall.

He couldn't stop himself.

One hand kept the silk pressed to his face. The other worked fast around his cock, his jaw tight, breathing controlled through sheer habit. He'd imagined you beneath him, his weight pinning you into the mattress, his teeth finding the curve of your shoulder, his scent finally, permanently replacing the nothing that Caleb had left behind. When he came it was blinding and quiet, his head dropping back, his whole body shaking with the force of it.

He'd cleaned up carefully. Returned everything. Walked to the kitchen and put the kettle on like a normal person.

He was a patient man. He was methodical. He had excellent grades and he called his mother on Sundays and he was going to wait for the right moment. But the conclusion had already been reached, somewhere in the back of his skull where logic and instinct lived side by side.

He was going to take you. It was a matter of time. He was just waiting for the right moment to show you that a real man didn't leave his woman smelling like an empty room.

--------------------------

The July heat was suffocating. Valko had been inside an exam room for two hours and his brain felt wrung out like a dish cloth. His glasses had fogged twice on the walk from campus, he was looking forward to the AC. He was looking forward to you.

It was a Friday so he'd stopped at the bakery on the corner. Two cinnamon rolls, extra cream cheese frosting. He had them in a plastic bag hooked over two fingers.

He reached the door and stopped. His nose twitched.

The scent of the hallway was wrong. Not dangerous, just wrong.

Valko's brow creased. He put his glasses back on.

He unlocked the door slowly, the click of the mechanism very loud in the quiet hallway, and pushed it open.

The air inside hit him all at once.

He stopped moving. His hand stayed on the doorknob, grip tightening by degrees until the metal pressed hard into his palm, and he stood in the entryway and looked at his living room like a man trying to solve a problem he hadn't been told existed.

There was someone on the couch.

Long legs stretched toward the coffee table. Dark tactical jacket, sleeves pushed up, the kind of build that came from actual use rather than a gym.

And tucked against his side, head on his chest, hand flat against his collarbone—

You. Laughing at something he'd just said.

Caleb.

Valko's mind was still trying to catch up. His instincts weren't waiting.

The heat that moved through him was immediate, flooding from his chest out, his vision sharpening at the edges the way it did when something in him decided a situation required full attention. His breathing stayed controlled—barely, through discipline and nothing else—while every animal thing in him was screaming to move forward. To put himself between you and the man currently comfortable in a space he had no right to be comfortable in.

My couch. The thought was irrational and he knew it and it didn't help. My apartment. My—

As if feeling the shift in the room, Caleb's head turned.

His eyes found Valko's across the space with a directness that said he'd known someone was there before the door finished opening. Dark eyes, calm, taking in Valko's full height and the white knuckled grip on the doorframe.

He didn't look away.

Neither did Valko.

You sat up, something lighting in your face when you saw him. "You're home early." You smiled, easy and warm, completely unaware of the temperature of the room. "Valko, this is my boyfriend Caleb. Caleb, this is my roommate, Valko."

Caleb stood up and extended his hand. He was tall—nearly matching Valko’s height—but where Valko was built like an immovable wall of muscle, Caleb possessed the lethal, agile grace of a feline.

Valko crossed the room and took it.

"Good to meet you," Caleb said. Flat. Even.

And the bottom dropped out of everything he thought he understood.

The scent hit him the second their palms connected, not foreign, not the aggressive territorial brand of another man he'd been grinding his teeth against for two years. It was you—your exact scent, the one Valko had spent two years cataloguing down to its smallest note—but run through something else entirely. Deeper. Heavier. Amplified through the biology of a dominant male until it had become its own thing, something that pressed into Valko's lungs like a hand against his sternum and didn't let up.

Caleb smelled like you the way a home smelled like the people who lived in it.

Two people did not share the same biological signature. That was not how any of this worked. Unless—

His brain didn't finish the thought. His body had already moved on without him.

The heat he felt all over his body was not aggression. That was the part that made no sense, the part that his wolf had no framework for because this wasn't a territorial response. This wasn't the hot, focused anger he'd been bracing for every time he imagined finally meeting the man who had you. This was something strange and considerably more humiliating, a frequency he hadn't known he could receive, vibrating straight through the bones of his hand where Caleb's grip still held.

His cock hardened so fast his vision went momentarily white at the edges.

He couldn't stop it. Couldn't reason with it. Two years of wanting you, of your scent living in the back of his throat like something he'd swallowed and never fully digested—and now here was this man, wearing you like a second skin, your sweetness wound so completely through his scent that Valko couldn't separate the two. Couldn't find where you ended and Caleb began.

It was the most overwhelming thing he had ever experienced. His knees felt weak.

Caleb's grip tightened.

His eyes hadn't moved from Valko's face. Valko watched the shift happen—the smile staying but changing underneath, becoming something quieter and darker. He'd clocked the pupil dilation. He'd clocked all of it.

"Something wrong?" Caleb asked

Valko could not breathe. The apartment was saturated with your/his scent and his body was making decisions he hadn't authorized, and he was going to do something catastrophic if he stayed in this room for another ten seconds. He didn't know what but he didn't want to find out.

He pulled his hand back.

"I forgot—" His voice came out completely unrecognizable. He didn't look at you. Couldn't. "The lab. I left something. I have to—"

He was already at the door. He had no memory of crossing the room.

The hallway air hit him cold and he kept walking, down the stairs, out into the July heat that suddenly felt like nothing compared to what he'd just left behind.

Behind him, the apartment door clicked shut.

Inside Caleb was still smiling.

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Also, thank you everyone. I love every single one of you.

Now, sitting in the university library three days later, you couldn't focus on a single line of text in front of you. You were supposed to be studying, but the quiet just made the noise in your head louder. Close your eyes for even a second and you felt it again, four fingers buried inside you, stretching you past what you thought you could take, your pussy clenching around them in little aftershocks. The warmth of Zayne’s cum soaking through his trousers against your bare ass.

The library's silence felt exactly like the silence after you'd come.

Dread settled low in your chest. Was this it? Had you wrecked the only thing that ever felt safe? You hadn't seen any of them in days—dodging texts, taking the long way to class, hiding in corners of campus you didn't even know existed. Two years of friendship and you'd thrown it all away because a little bit of alcohol got you horny. Fuck!

You didn't hear the sneaker scuff against carpet a few rows over. Didn't notice the eyes tracking the nervous way your finger kept dragging across your bottom lip.

Rafayel stood half hidden by art history, knuckles white against the shelf, watching you with the same burning focus he'd had three nights ago.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Forty eight hours after you fled Zayne's dorm, the deadbolt on his door slid shut again. Everyone—except you— was back again.

Caleb leaned against the wall spinning a basketball on his finger until it dropped, thudding against the floor. He'd mutter something under his breath, scoop it up, start over. Rafayel paced the strip of carpet between the twin beds, flipping through a stack of index cards he wasn't reading—snap, snap, snap. Sylus stood by the window with his back to the room, fingers tapping some restless rhythm against the glass. Xavier was the only one still, flat on his stomach on Zayne's bed, chin in his hands, staring blankly at a stray bobby pin left behind on the floor. Zayne sat at his desk pretending to study an anatomy chart. He'd adjusted the lamp three times. Tried to ignore the testosterone fogging up his room. But between the ball, the pacing, and the tapping, focus was a lost cause.

He slammed his textbook shut, took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. Caleb dropped the ball.

"Stop pretending," he said, voice dropping into flat calm. "You didn't come here to study. Just say what you actually want to say so I can kick you all out."

Silence. Quick, guilty glances passed between them—nobody wanting to be the one to crack first, to admit they'd all been picturing the same thing. You, two nights ago, coming apart under their hands.

Rafayel cleared his throat first, tossing his index cards onto the bed "Fiiiiine. Hypothetically. Say a guy's already inside a girl. All the way in. How do you hit that spot? Is there a specific angle?"

A muscle jumped in Zayne's jaw. "The angle doesn't change just because your dick is inside her, Rafayel. Shallow thrusts, angled up. Not just slamming into her. Though I doubt you have the stability to hold that for long."

"I have great stability!" Rafayel hissed, ears burning pink, thumb rubbing against his middle finger as the memory of you made his pulse spike.

"He once held a paintbrush at the exact same angle for an hour straight," Xavier offered, not lifting his chin from his hands.

"See? Stability."

"That's your wrist, Rafayel. Different muscle group entirely," Caleb said.

From the bed, Xavier's voice cut through again, quiet and lazy. "What about when she's on top? Or on the edge of a desk. How do you go down on her so she can grind as hard as she wants? For when she needs to control the movements herself."

Caleb snorted "A desk? Real smooth, Xavi."

"Better than what you're about to ask."

"You don't even know what I'm about to ask."

"I've known you for two years. I know exactly what you're about to ask.”

Caleb's ears went red, but he plowed ahead anyway. "Okay. Hypothetically, say a guy's bigger than average. How's he supposed to use her mouth without hurting her throat?”

"Bigger than average?" Rafayel repeated.

"I am."

"Compared to what?”

"Compared to the general population."

"You've never seen the general population's dick. You've seen yours and you've seen ours and apparently that's all the data you needed?."

Caleb opened his mouth, found nothing, and closed it again.

Sylus finally stopped tapping the glass and a low laugh rumbled out of him "If a guy's significantly bigger than average…”

“Not you too…” Rafayel groaned

“How does he make sure he actually fits, without hurting her? If she's tight. Really tight. Where's the point her body just gives up and takes it?”

Zayne pinched the bridge of his nose again. "I cannot believe I'm hearing grown men compare dick sizes in my dorm room while pretending it's for science."

"It is for science," Caleb said.

"It is not for science, Caleb."

"Reproductive science."

"Get out of my room."

Nobody moved. Zayne let out a long breath through his nose, the kind that meant he was three seconds from actually losing it.

The silence came back, heavier.

Zayne put his glasses back on slowly, fingers locking onto the edge of his desk until his knuckles went white, whatever calm he usually wore was completely gone.

“Every single one of you needs patience and a lot less idiocy than you're currently showing," Zayne said "I'll answer each question once. Once. And then you're all getting the hell out of my dorm. Am I clear?”

Their faces stayed blank. None of them realized they were all in the same boat.

Rafayel thought he was the only one picturing your breasts. Caleb thought his face fucking question was a private fantasy about your mouth, Xavier was silently planning how to put his tongue to use on you again and Sylus was quietly calculating exactly how to stretch you open and how slow he'd have to go. They were entirely oblivious to the fact that not a single one of them was thinking about an imaginary girl. Every single question in that room had your name underneath it.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

The shadow over your book solidified into something real. Rafayel had stepped out from behind the art history shelves, and walked straight over, pulled out the chair across from you, and dropped into it like he owned the table.

He propped his chin in his palm and smiled at you. Easy. Unbothered. Like three nights ago he hadn't had your leg pinned wide open over Zayne's leg, staring at you with eyes blown wide and wild.

"You've been reading the same page for ten minutes," he said, voice smooth, carrying that familiar teasing lilt like nothing in the world had changed. "Is it the most boring book ever written or are you hiding in here?"

Your mouth had gone dry. You closed the book slowly, hoping he wouldn't notice your hands weren't steady. "Just studying, Raf. Got a lot going on."

"Clearly," he said, dragging one finger in a slow circle against the table, eyes never leaving yours.

He didn't take the hint to go. He pulled a sketchbook out of his bag instead and started doodling something on the margins while you tried, and failed, to read the same sentence for the fourth time. Every few minutes he'd glance up, catch you watching, and smirk like he'd won something. You'd duck back to your notes. He'd go back to sketching. The cycle repeated itself until you couldn't tell if you were studying or being studied.

"You're doing it again," he murmured eventually, not looking up from his sketchbook.

"What?"

"Biting your lip…” He flipped the sketchbook closed before you could see what he'd drawn. "It's distracting."

"You're the one distracting me."

"I'm just sitting here, very quietly, minding my own business."

"You sat down across from me, uninvited."

"I go to this school. I'm allowed in the library." He grinned, and it was the same easy, infuriating grin he always wore.

When you finally packed up, he packed up too, slinging his bag over one shoulder and falling into step beside you without asking if that was okay. You walked across campus together. He talked sbout a canvas he was prepping, about a professor who kept docking him points for too much emotion in his color theory, about some gallery downtown that wanted his portfolio. Normal things. Easy things. He never once brought up the dorm. Never said Xavier's name, or Zayne's, or anything about orgasms or the sounds you'd made that day.

But it was there anyway. In every silence. In the half second too long his eyes dropped to your mouth mid sentence before flicking back up like nothing happened. In the way his shoulder kept finding yours on the narrow sidewalk, brief and electric, like he was doing it on purpose and daring you to call him out. You grabbed coffee. He ordered for you without asking, remembering exactly how you took it, and didn't comment when your fingers brushed his over the cup and you both pretended not to notice.

The whole afternoon felt like holding your breath.

By the time you made it back to your building Rafayel was still beside you. Still talking. Still walking like he had every right to be there. You didn't stop him at the stairs. You didn't stop him in the hallway. And when your key finally turned in the lock and the door swung open, whatever fragile, careful normalcy you'd both been playing at for the last three hours fell apart completely.

You barely had time to kick the door shut.

Rafayel's palms hit the wood on either side of your head, and then his mouth was on yours and there was no easing into it, no polite preamble, just him, kissing you like he'd been thinking about nothing else for three days. He tasted like dark coffee and barely leashed desperation. Your hands found his chest on instinct, fingers twisting into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer.

He'd been your first crush out of all of them. The beautiful, dramatic, slightly impossible artist who always seemed to exist outside of your reach. And now he had you pinned against your own door.

"Three days," he breathed against your mouth "Three days of you hiding and leaving my texts on read."

"Raf—"

"I counted the hours." His forehead dropped to yours "I had to stop because… it was embarrassing."

His hands moved before you could say something else—down your neck, across your shoulders, fingers curling into the hem of your shirt and pulling it up and over your head. He dropped it somewhere. Didn't look where it landed. He was too busy looking at you.

He'd been replaying it for three nights straight, stroking his cock raw. The light catching your skin. Zayne's hands on you. The sounds you'd made. The image had lodged itself somewhere behind his eyes and refused to leave.

His fingers found the clasp of your bra, knuckles brushing the curve of your spine, and you shivered so hard it traveled through his hands. He undid it carefully—not slowly, he wasn't capable of slow right now—and slid the straps off your shoulders, tossing it aside.

"I kept thinking about this," he said, half to himself. "Zayne had his hands on you and I was sitting three feet away going completely insane." He had been dying to see your breasts again since he had seen your nipples turn tight under Zayne's fingers.

He cupped you gently, and the slight roughness of his palms against your skin pulled a sound out of you immediately. He felt it more than heard it.

"Yeah, just like that" he murmured.

His hands were trembling slightly, he noticed and hated it but couldn't stop it. His hands never trembled. But this was you, and you were looking up at him with those eyes, and his hands were shaking like he was an eighteen year old that had never touched anyone before in his life.

His thumbs dragged over your nipples as he watched your face, not your chest, the way your lips parted, the way your head tipped back an inch. Cataloguing. Filing it away. Learning the shape of you the way he learned everything—through touch, through attention, through taking his time even when every instinct was screaming at him not to..

"You have no clue," he said quietly, thumbs circling again, "what it was like to watch you and not be able to—" He stopped. Pressed his lips together. His jaw worked like he was deciding how honest to be. "I kept thinking about what sounds you'd make if it was just me. If I got to take my time."

His hands lifted your breasts slightly, testing the weight with the same attention he gave to everything he cared about. His eyes tracked the movement.

"I want to draw you like this someday," he said, almost offhand, like the thought had just surfaced. Then his gaze flicked up to yours. "Can I?.”

Your back arched off the door and he took that as the invitation it was, mouth closing over your right breast with a hungry sound that vibrated against your skin. His tongue worked tight circles around your nipple before he pulled it deep, sucking hard enough to make your knees buckle, hands moving to grip your waist to keep you upright. When he finally pulled off, he dragged his mouth across to the other side, slower this time, lips brushing the soft underside before he bit down carefully and then sucked until a mark bloomed red against your skin, exactly where he wanted it.

He pulled back just far enough to look at it. Something satisfied moved across his face.

"There," he said quietly before he pressed his face back into your skin and groaned like you were killing him.

You didn't fully register the part where you moved from the door to your bed. Clothes came off in pieces—his shirt somewhere by the desk, your jeans a problem that took both of you longer than it should have, both of you half laughing for about three seconds before his mouth found your throat and the laughing stopped. The sheets felt cold against your back when you finally went down. Rafayel was all heat, hovering over you, weight braced on one arm, looking down at you with the same burning eyes that had been watching you from across that library for the better part of an hour.

He'd shed his pants and underwear at some point. He was fully hard, thick and leaking, a bead of moisture gathered at the tip that made your stomach flip because you remembered what he'd looked like three nights ago, damp fabric, clenched jaw and eyes that couldn't look away from you.

He parted your thighs and settled between them. He'd painted you in his head a hundred times in the last three days. He kept going back to the image of you spread open and wanting, the way you'd looked when you were right at the edge. He'd tried to work through it. Picked up a brush, stared at a blank canvas, put the brush down. Made coffee. Stared at his phone. Almost texted you seventeen times.

He guided himself to your entrance, and Zayne's voice chose that exact moment to surface in his memory. "Shallow thrusts, angled up. You have to use your hips to angle the pressure up against the anterior wall with every thrust. And internal targeting alone isn't always enough. You'll need to add direct stimulation to her clitoris at the same time if you actually want her to cum."

He almost laughed. Instead he shifted his weight and looked at you with an expression that was equal parts focused and insufferable.

"I did some research..." he said.

"Raf..."

"For artistic purposes." He pressed forward, just barely, just enough to feel the heat of your pussy against the tip of his cock, and watched your face.

He let out a slow, shaking breath and pushed inside you.

The sound he made wasn't dignified. It was pulled out of him by the way you gripped him—tight and hot—your body drawing him in like it had been waiting specifically for him. He sank all the way to the hilt, pelvis pressed flush against yours, and stayed there for a moment with his forehead dropped to your shoulder and his jaw locked so hard it ached.

He needed a second. Just one second.

You were clawing at his shoulders, nails dragging, and the sting of it helped him focus.

Pull back. Shallow. Angle up. Zayne's voice was sitting in the back of his skull like an annotation in the margin of a textbook. He wanted to be annoyed about it, but not right now, he was going to be annoyed about it later. Right now he pulled back slowly, almost all the way out, felt you clench around the tip of his dick like you were trying to keep him inside, and thrusted back in with his hips tilted up.

The sound you made rattled something loose in his chest.

He felt it, the moment the angle caught, the way your whole body seized around him, legs snapping tight around his waist and heels digging into the small of his back trying to pull him deeper. He'd hit it exactly. The spot Xavier had worked open with his fingers three nights ago, and the memory of watching that—watching you cum for Xavier—made something possessive and dark curl through him.

It was his turn now.

He reached down between your bodies, fingers sliding through the slick until his thumb found your clit, swollen and twitching, and pressed down.

"Is that—" His voice broke halfway through the question. He cleared his throat, face burning. "Is that it?"

You answered by moaning his name, which he was choosing to take as a yes.

He kept the same rhythm, thumb working circles around your clit. Your walls fluttering around him in little pulses was making it extremely difficult to think. He had to remind himself several times that he was an artist. He had the patience. He was going to make you cum and squirt just like Xavier did.

His hands were shaking again.

"I've got you," he pressed his mouth to your temple, your cheek, wherever he could reach. "I've got you, I've got you, cutie"

He picked up the pace slowly, maintaining the angle through sheer stubbornness. The sounds filling the room were obscene—wet and unavoidable—and Rafayel didn't care about any of it because you were falling apart underneath him and he couldn't look away from your face.

He'd painted a lot of things. Spent years chasing the right light, the right color, the right moment that made something ordinary look like it meant something. He'd never painted anything that looked like you did right now and he was already furious at himself because he knew he would never be able to.

He drove into you harder, felt the headboard knock once against the wall, and decided he didn't care.

"You're so tight," he choked out, the words barely making it past his teeth, pressed into the wet skin of your neck. His lips dragged down to your collarbone, teeth grazing, and his thumb kept its pressure on your clit without mercy. "You keep...fuck...every time I hit it you...It feels so good"

The pressure was building fast, coiling low in your abdomen, that same terrifying weight you'd felt under Xavier's fingers—except this was different, this was Rafayel, his chest against yours and his mouth on your throat and you couldn't think about anything else.

You bore down without thinking, muscles releasing the way Zayne had told you to, pushing back against him, and Rafayel made a sound against your neck that was almost pained.

"Raf...please, I'm gonna..."

"Don't hold it, cutie. Give it to me" he whispered right against your ear. 

A rush of heat soaked the sheets beneath you as you cried his name into the quiet room. Not a whisper. Not a gasp. His name, loud and completely undone.

Rafayel groaned like something in him gave way.

Whatever control he'd been holding onto—the careful rhythm, the patience, the angle, all of it, shattered the second he felt you cum around him. He buried himself as deep as he could go and followed you over the edge, shaking, both hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise as he poured into you in long spurts.

He collapsed onto your chest.

His heart was slamming against your ribs, your fingers were tangled in his hair from some point you couldn't remember. The room was quiet except for both of you trying to remember how lungs worked.

His lips moved against your collarbone 

"I sketched you. In the library today. While you weren't looking." His fingers traced something slow and shapeless against your ribs. "You looked like you were carrying something heavy." A breath. "I wanted to take it from you.”

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Though letting himself into your apartment like this was nothing new, had become a part of your routine for months at this point, if you're honest, there was something that had been feeling different about Valko's visits to you lately. Less vexing and more… comforting.

An increased awareness of him, maybe? The sound of his voice. His size. The way his laugh and personality managed to fill the room more than his bulky body. Of the way he always tripped over your living room rug or tried to sneak a rub of his scent into every pillow. Of the way he stood so close when he spoke to you, capturing you in the sweet honey of his eyes.

It was something warm that pulsed in your chest, something intimate that had started to hook your gaze to his mouth and magnetize your palms to his skin even today, when you're at your lowest.

His right ear twitches at the sound of his name as he grabs your phone from the floor, a crease of distaste scrunching his nose when he clicks on the screen to stop the noise and tsks, "Looks like my 'dogs are better than cats' speech needs some work."

"Maybe I'll be more in the mood to hear you out–" you take your phone back and set it on the table with a huff, "–when my 'please use the damn front door' speech finally penetrates that thick skull of yours."

A crooked grin scrawls over his face. The pointed tips of his incisors reflecting the dim light of the small lamp you'd flicked on purely to save you from feeling like a complete gremlin while you moped this evening.

"Gonna tell you the same thing I tell Ma every time she says that." He unfurls from the crouching position he'd been in and drops his weight beside you, making your normally sizeable loveseat suddenly feel cramped. "Processing info is for the ears, not the skull."

Resting your cheek in your palm, you narrow your eyes at him with a considering hum.

"What?" Your uninvited houseguest turns to face you, eliciting a concerning creak from the loveseat as his knee comes up to rest on the cushion and his arm drapes over the back. An oversized paw just shy of brushing your shoulder. "What d'you mean, 'hm?'"

"Trespasser, jumpscaring people, terrible manners, and a smart ass to your mother?" You note each transgression by holding up a finger. "No wonder you're always prowling around Linkon alone."

"Hey, hey! Woah, woah, hold on." His hand darts forward, covering yours like it'll hide the evidence. "No– I mean– sure I may be some of those things, but trust me," he puts one of your fingers down and leans forward, another sad groan coming from below the cushion as he rests his elbow on his knee. "I wouldn't be sitting here, or hanging out with you – or breathing – if I were a smart ass to my mother."

Despite yourself, you feel the corner of your lip twitch, the closest you’ve come to a smile all day.

It surprises you how naturally it comes, how much lighter you feel, as you take in his easy grin, his warm palms, his artless gaze. Makes you worry that you're becoming used to this feeling, to something you might be misreading.

"Why?"

"Well, she has this really brutal way of grabbing you by the ear and–"

"No–" the word dissolves on a giggle that has both his ears twitching and an expression you can't quite interpret crossing his face. "I mean, why are you sitting here? Hanging out with me?"

"Oh. I kind of–" He stops, a hint of pink creeping onto his cheeks as he looks down at your still-linked hands. "I mean, I sorta felt like something was… off. With you." You're suddenly glad for the loss of his gaze as he starts to fiddle with your fingers, pressing the pads of his fingers to the tops of your nails as if to test their sharpness. "It's like a.. tug?"

Your mind races with panic as you realize just how much your attraction to him has been tugging at you over his last few visits. "Are you saying that with this– this bond or whatever, you can feel my emotions?"

"Nah, it's not like that." You hope he can't see the stark relief in your gaze when his eyes meet yours again, letting go of your hand to press a palm to the center of his chest. "It's not emotions that call me, it's, well… you. Calling me, that is. Needing me. Or, pulling at me, more like."

Your brows arc upward. "Like a leash?"

His head shoots back dramatically, paired with a groan that sounds almost as distressed as the loveseat still suffering under his weight. "Mercy, little hellion. Let a man keep at least a little dignity." He shakes his head with a bark of self-deprecating laughter. "But yeah. You've got me leashed up good. Happy?"

His question is gentle but pointed, hopeful. His frame still leaning over you, an umbrella shielding you from the sadness and negativity that have been pelting you all day.

Your chest warms at the sight, making it all the harder to respond with a sad smile and the shake of your head as the all the reasons you're not happy come flooding back.

"Alright," he says easily, unphased and unrelenting. A considering look enters his eyes. "Just means I've gotta take more drastic measures here."

In a blur of movements you barely have time to process, he turns his back to you, kicks off his boots – an oddly polite gesture that has you reconsidering just how serious he was about that leash comment – and flops backward. The broad span of his shoulders forces your bent knees down to accommodate the weight of his head as it nestles into your thighs.

"V-Valko! What are you doing?" you stutter, heartbeat galloping as the scent of amber and pine and him wash over you. His ear twitches as he takes your awkwardly hovering hands, placing one behind the wolf ear on his right and the other behind the human ear on his left.

"There," he says with a wiggle of his shoulders, like your thighs are a pillow he's nestling into.

When he notices your hands haven't budged, he gives you an expectant look, nudging the sides of his head into your palms until your lips twitch and your fingers start to move.

"This is your drastic measure?"

He hums in response, eyelashes fluttering as your nails scrape gently over a rose-coloured mix of silky hair and plush fur.

"And this is supposed to…" The question trails off but your hands continue.

He shrugs, the heat of his shoulders anchoring your thighs as one of his arms sneaks around your waist.

"I dunno, distract you? Annoy you, comfort you, take your pick." His eyes lock onto yours, sincere, earnest. "Whatever you need."

The combination of his touch and his words act like a stick of dynamite, blasting through the boulder of tension and worry that's been sitting on your chest all day.

You take a deep breath as he sighs in what you instinctually know is relief. And for the first time since he's mentioned this "bond" of yours, you think, maybe this thing goes both ways.

The thought that you might be starting to figure him out as well as he always seems to understand you brings a small smile to your face.

His lips mirror yours. "That's what I like to see," he says, voice low.

You roll your eyes and flick his ear to disguise the way your stomach flips when the praise rumbles through your thighs, flexing them to jostle him and joke, "What? Me being suffocated?"

His finger comes up to tap the end of your nose with a self-assured grin. "Stop pretending you dont like it, I saw that weighted blanket on your bed." You're not sure if it's you or the loveseat that squeaks when he tugs you into his face and nuzzles into your stomach. "Wanna tell me what's got you down?"

There's something about Valko's bluntness, about his willingness to tackle everything head-on, that catches you more off-guard than his casual and abundant displays of affection ever do. It's straightforward, without artifice. And though there's no hesitation in his request, there's somehow no pressure in it either. As if no response you give him could ever result in offense or resentment or awkwardness, making it feel like the most natural thing in the world to tell the unvarnished truth.

So you do.

"It's just… everything? I don't know, it's all piling up. Like, there's work, lack of sleep, friends I'm not keeping up with, not to mention the general state of the world."

You pause, finding his attentive gaze already on you when you look down to see if you're making any sense. He nods encouragingly, the ears on his head twitching in unison like an attentive audience.

"So I guess I've just been thinking about it all and it feels a little overwhelming. Right here." You press a hand to your chest. "And… heavy, I guess. Like–" You raise a pointed brow. "Like getting crushed by a giant mutt on my own sofa."

His jaw drops in dramatic affront. “You– did you just-” He snaps into a sitting position, your loveseat groaning in despair before he points a finger at himself, as if there could be anyone else you were talking about. “Mutt?! Oh you just crossed a line, you hellion.”

Any response you might’ve had morphs into a high-pitched squeal as you’re scooped up by a muscular arm and thrown over his shoulder.

“Valko! What are you doing? Put me down,” you manage through giggles and laughter as he hauls you to the bedroom with what sounds like a muttered 'I’ll show you a giant mutt.'

You land on the mattress with a breathless oomph, the stray laughs bubbling from your throat feeling foreign but welcome as Valko descends over your figure in an army crawl, finally stopping when you're nose to nose.

Your chests meet on each breath as he reaches up to brush hair from your face. His eyes seem more yellow than amber in the dim light, like marigolds, and you can't think of anything more fitting for the resilient, protective man above you.

"Hi," you breathe, grinning wide.

"Hello, gorgeous," he murmurs, darting a glance at your lips that has your heartbeat pounding against your ribs.

The shadow of his tail swishes behind him as he lowers his weight onto you, fitting his body over yours in a way that anchors and comforts you rather than stifles you.

"Better?" He mumbles into your neck, the heat of his breath awakening gooseflesh over your collarbones. "You know, now that you've made my pedigree your punching bag?"

"Yeah, actually," you realize with a giggle, fingers brushing over the soft bristles of his undercut. "I do."

You haven't laughed this much in a while. In fact, despite being pinned under the heaviest man you know, you haven't felt this light for a few weeks now, you think, which was… the last time he visited you. You close your eyes briefly, mourning the loss of your sanity at the realization that he was right earlier. You had needed him.

"Then listen to me real quick." Your hand slips to his jaw when he raises his head, his smile smaller, his eyes intent. "Next time you feel overwhelmed, or if it's all feeling like too much, you don't have to isolate yourself, or doomscroll, or muscle through it alone. I know I look like I'm all brains but I can help carry things. So just call me, yeah?"

You smile, agreeing with a small nod, pausing before you joke, "With the leash?"

"Okay, who's the smart ass now?" he mutters with a shake of his head, crooked grin back in place. "I meant with a phone. But the leash works too, I guess."

"What's it like?" you ask, curious for the first time since you've learned of it.

"The bond?" His eyes flicker between your eyes and your lips, a knuckle tracing your cheek. "It's like one of those less traveled paths in the woods. Barely visible to the naked eye, but once you find it and start walking on it, everything starts to feel… right."

"Your chest gets really warm and you have this zappy feeling in your gut." His lips tip up in a faraway smile as his eyes follow the path his knuckle makes over your ear, your neck, your collarbones. "Everything feels possible when it's there. Lighter. And when it's gone? Anything you do feels wrong. Empty."

"But…" You swallow past the heartbeat in your throat. "I thought you couldn't feel my emotions," you protest weakly.

A spark ignites in his eyes, electric enough to charge the air between you as his expression morphs into what you can only identify as a primal satisfaction. He inhales deeply, as if he's trying to memorize the scent of this moment, holding your gaze as his eyelids lower.

"I can't," he breathes, so close his nose brushes against yours when he shakes his head. "Those were all mine."

Your lips part, tongue hovering in wait between your teeth as his palm comes up under your chin, fingers settling on both sides of your jaw to draw you in. Your eyes shut as his lips descend over yours, and despite the warmth of his palm, the first brush of his tongue feel like being doused in flame. You wrap your arms around his neck on a moan, humming when he tilts your head to lick into your mouth again and again.

"Valko." The soft, fuzzy sensation of his buzzed hair grazes your knuckles and he sighs into your mouth, as if you're breathing life back into him with the sound of his name.

You take the chance to nip at his lip, holding it hostage between yours until he answers in kind. The sharpness of his teeth like bee stings on your mouth, soothed only by the sweet honey of a tongue that's licking, tasting, consuming the flushed skin between your lips and your throat.

His body sinks into yours, each of his muscles and contours taking shape around yours like heated metal, a weapon being forged for its master, its weight the heaviest thing you'll ever have to carry again.

➻➻ MASTERLIST

NOTE: They can take my undomesticated wolf man from me in the game but he will live on as a terrible house guest in my delusions forever xoxo

"What about Twilight?" He smirks, clearly trying to rile you up.

"Val! We are not watching Twilight." You laugh.

"You’re the one always comparing me to Jacob."

For some reason, the TV just isn't responding, so you press down harder on the button. You angle the remote, as if that would somehow improve the connection. Unfortunately, the smooth plastic slides out of your grip. It clatters to the floor, the battery cover popping off.

"Shit. Valko can-"

"Got it!" Valko practically dives towards the remote, grabbing the device.

"Thanks…"

"No problem!" He gives you a fanged smile.

That's weird. He seems almost… Happy? Proud? Excited? That's the word. He seems strangely excited to retrieve the remote for you. You didn't notice it at first, but now that you think about it, it's something he's done since you met.

Just last week, you dropped your pencil while you looked over reports from the Association. Before you even registered that you had dropped it, Valko handed it back to you.

Yesterday, you accidentally knocked your phone off the counter while cooking. Valko was there to pick it up.

This morning, the toothpaste tube slipped out of your hands when you were brushing your teeth. He literally ran from the other room just to help you.

Then it clicked.

"Valko," You sigh, staring him dead in the eyes. "Are you… playing fetch with me?"

"No! I'm-" His voice cracks, coming out a few octaves too high.

"Ahem." He clears his throat, his voice returning to its usual baritone. "No. What do you mean? Tch. Playing fetch. I'm not a stupid dog." He insists.

"Right…" You give him a side eye, but resume the movie search regardless.

You hand him the remote, letting him find what to watch while a plan brews in your mind. There's no way you’re letting this slide without teasing him. It's just too good an opportunity to pass up. Spotting the bag of snacks perched on the table, you reach over and grab it, letting the bag slowly fall from your hand. It lands on the ground with a crackle.

Like a sleeper agent, Valko's eyes lock onto the package. His eyes narrow, like he's stalking prey. The wolf hybrid lunges, snatching it up from the floor. Valko then places it in your lap with a gentleness that belies the urgency with which he grabbed the bag of snacks.

"Valko."

"What?"

You snicker and toss the bag across the room.

"Valko, fetch!"

He bolts up from the couch, scoops up the chips and returns it to your outstretched hands.

"Oh. No, no, you did not!" Valko's face drops as he processes what in the world just happened. Red blooms across his face and his ears twitch in anger as embarrassment sets in.

"Stupid wolf instincts." He mutters. “Stupid human."

an: I am genuinely devastated at the loss of such a wonderful character and am angry at the way infold has handled the situation. so I wrote something lighthearted for those who need it rn

also apologies if anything doesn’t make sense or is grammatically incorrect it’s 2 am rn for me and I am tired… g’night guys I sleep now ‎꜀( ꜆-ࡇ-)꜆ ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁